God help him, he did not know. But one thought began to roar above all others: if he was to be a great leader, he could not think like a mere man. Men allowed emotion. He had to stop his, control them, and harden himself when necessary.
The days bled one into the other, battle after battle. Scottish strongholds fell so fast that Robert scarcely had time to grieve one loss before another was upon him. He did what he could to avoid fighting, to send the men under his command too late, or in the wrong direction, but it was not enough. Before him, his country was being crushed under Edward’s heavy boot. The rebellion they had planned, that he had sacrificed for, played the turncoat for, lost his wife for, was failing.
Numbness set in for the losses he saw, the helplessness he endured.
As winter approached, the king turned his sights to John Comyn’s lands. While the man had long been his enemy, sworn to bring Robert low, he was still a Scot, and Robert found he could not wish that Edward conquered Comyn. They pursued him into Selkirk Forest, and the man who had once more taken on the role of Guardian of Scotland, making him the supreme authority in Scotland until a legitimate king was again on the throne, surrendered rather than fight to the death.
Robert’s compassion for the man disappeared as he stood in the dark, beside the king as commanded, on the opposite side of Comyn.
The tent was packed with the king’s council, guards, Comyn and two of his men—only allowed to accompany him there to talk terms of surrender—and Lamberton, who had joined them from a traveling party only an hour before.
“I’m told you wish to surrender,” Edward said, his tone smug.
Comyn jerked his head in a nod. “I would save my men.”
Edward snorted. “You would save your lands.”
“If I save my lands I save many men,” Comyn countered. Robert’s hands curled into fists. Rage that Comyn would, even now, seek only to protect himself overcame Robert.
“A moment…” Edward moved to the corner of the tent where Lamberton was writing the terms of surrender furiously on a scroll as Edward had directed. Taut silence stretched across the tent as Edward murmured to Lamberton in a voice no one else could hear. When Lamberton glanced up, his eyes wide and his mouth parted, Robert knew it was not good news for Scotland. Slowly, the prelate handed the scroll to Edward, and the king leisurely walked over and passed it to Robert. “Read your enemy our terms.”
Robert’s heart seemed to stop beating. His blood rushed, and his tongue would not work.
“Bruce!” Edward roared.
Robert stared at the foolscap and began to read. As he said the words aloud, his voice sounded far away. He felt suddenly as if he were floating above himself, watching his own death, watching the death of his country. The terms were generous in the beginning; Edward must have been in an especially good mood. Scottish nobles would not be disinherited or killed. They could keep their lands by paying fines, though some would be exiled. Then Robert came to the terms regarding William Wallace, who was to be brought to the king by Comyn and his men. And no mercy would be shown to the man, who had been a ruthless rebel leader and a thorn in the king’s side. Wallace was a rallying cry on the people of Scotland’s lips, and Edward wished to silence that cry with his death.
Robert lowered the scroll, and his gaze met Comyn’s. He was aware, as one is that they still breathe without noting each breath one takes, that he was speaking, but it was not until he fell silent and the king turned enraged eyes upon Robert, that he could recall what he’d said. “Ye can nae accept these terms, Comyn. Wallace must have safety as all the Scottish nobles have safety.”
Comyn’s lips curled back from his teeth as he glared at Robert. “I accept these terms.”
Robert reached for his sword and Comyn flinched, but Edward gripped Robert’s arm. “I’d remind you that you are loyal to me and that your wife awaits a reunion with you.”
Shaking, Robert let his hand fall from his sword and stood swaying with grief in a sea of enemies.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Elizabeth clutched her goblet as she watched de Beauchamp open the missive that had come from the king. How long had it been since she’d had any word of Robert? So long that she could not count the days. Worry ate at her like a poison, making her feel as if it would kill her. De Beauchamp looked up at her, smugness in his eyes, and she almost wished news had not come. If Robert had fallen she would be lost. Lost. She had only survived the prolonged separation because of the surety in her heart that one day she would be reunited with him. With Catarine’s help and constant companionship as her lady’s maid, Elizabeth had managed to avoid de Beauchamp’s clutches, but now… He looked at her with open lust.
He folded the note, picked up his goblet, took a long swallow of wine, and then set it down. Devil take him, he was enjoying her torment. “It seems,” he said slowly, boastfully, “that our beloved king has stormed his way northward and left desolation in his wake. Nothing and no one is left to withstand him from land to sea.”
The news was like a sword in Elizabeth’s gut. In her mind, she screamed Robert’s name. She swallowed past a hard knot in her throat. Beside her, she could feel Catarine trembling. Under the table, Elizabeth squeezed her friend’s knee, a silent reminder not to show her true feelings.
“The only major stronghold where the Scots still hide is Sterling Castle,” de Beauchamp crowed.
Elizabeth sucked in a sharp breath. The news was worsening with every foul word from his mouth. “What of Comyn?” she asked, thinking of the man her husband had not trusted.
“His northern strongholds have fallen, too. There are none left to rise in rebellion, save the Highland chiefs on the remote islands, and they care naught for what the English or the other Scots beyond their islands do.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together to keep from disagreeing aloud.
“Elizabeth, you don’t look happy.” De Beauchamp peered at her from over his wine goblet.
“I would be without heart to find happiness in the death of others and the destruction of nature.”
“I’m ecstatic myself,” he said, his mouth twisting into a smile. “And there is more news. Do you wish to hear it?”
Her heart hammered wildly. “Yes.”
“The fiend Wallace has fled to the woods, so we must still worry of him, but happy news has come from France and the Pope!”
Dread nearly choked Elizabeth. “What news?” she croaked.
“France and England have signed a permanent peace, and the King of France, who is indebted to our king as you know, has agreed that Balliol and his son shall never return to Scotland again. Is this not pleasing?”
Elizabeth gripped her wine goblet. It was not horrible news, as Balliol had stolen the throne from Robert’s family, but if France and England were at peace, there was no hope for the Scots to find an ally in France. “What of the Pope?”
“Ah!” De Beauchamp clapped his hands. “Pope Boniface has declared Scotland in wicked rebellion. Any who rise in arms against King Edward are damned to Hell. Lucky that your husband is now the king’s loyal servant.”
“Is there word of Robert?” she asked, her heart fluttering.
“Yes,” he said, smirking at her. “What will you give me if I tell you?”
She imagined her dagger plunging into the man’s heart. As the image was flittering through Elizabeth’s mind, though, Catarine said, “I will give ye a kiss. I have long wondered what ye taste like.”
Elizabeth swung her gaze to her friend, whose eyes widened, pleading. The notion that Catarine would make this sacrifice for Elizabeth meant the world to her.
“Bring yourself to me then, you sweet, fiery Scottish lady. I will be happy to give you a taste.”
Bile rose in Elizabeth’s throat as Catarine stood, moved past Elizabeth, and leaned forward to allow de Beauchamp to kiss her. The noise of guttural desire he made caused Elizabeth’s stomach to turn, and she saw the servants turn down their eyes. These were Catarine’s people, and Eli
zabeth had come to learn they loved Catarine.
When the kiss was finished, Catarine returned to her seat, her back to de Beauchamp, and wiped a hand across her mouth. When she sat, she drank the entire contents of her wine goblet, and a servant scurried forward to refill it. Silence had fallen over the hall. No one was close enough to hear what was said, but they all had seen the kiss.
“Your husband has met with much trouble, it seems,” de Beauchamp said, sounding all too pleased. “As have his brothers Bruce did his best to keep safely away from the fighting.”
Elizabeth gripped the table, the room spinning. “What trouble?”
“Bruce was ordered to gather men in the west to fight for Edward, and Bruce’s men refused to heed the call. He also had machinery that he provided for attacks that did not work and incompetent troops that lost their way and missed battles.”
Elizabeth wanted to laugh with relief. These were all strategies that she and Robert had come up with so many, many months ago so he could avoid truly aiding Edward.
“It seems, though, that the Prince of Wales learned how to be a successful commander from his father, our dear King Edward. The Prince captured two of Bruce’s willful brothers, and all the problems Bruce was having aiding the king smoothed out. I believe the king’s exact words were that he would kill Thomas and Alexander, if Bruce was not of more aid.”
Elizabeth’s heart twisted for Robert. What had he needed to do to save his brothers? She could not imagine.
“The king has ordered Bruce to come here to rendezvous with him. They will arrive tomorrow night,” de Beauchamp said, leering at her. “So this is our last night alone.”
Try as she might, it was impossible to steady her erratic pulse. The news that Robert would return to her left her dizzy, but the happiness was dulled by the fear of what de Beauchamp would try to do to her before then. She forced her gaze to meet his. “Sad news, indeed.” She rose on trembling legs. “I do believe I shall retire now.”
“I’ll attend ye,” Catarine said, rising.
“No,” de Beauchamp said. “Catarine, you will retire, but Elizabeth will keep my company.”
“As you wish,” Catarine said, then leaned toward Elizabeth. “Good night, my lady.” She squeezed Elizabeth’s hand, and something hard jabbed into her palm. When she stole a glance, she saw that it was a small vial of powder.
Catarine stood. “The two of ye should drink to Edward’s success,” she suggested.
Elizabeth had no doubt the powder was some sort of sleeping draught. But how to get it into de Beauchamp’s wine? As Catarine turned to depart the dais, she swung out her hand and knocked over de Beauchamp’s goblet. Wine spilled all over the table.
“You foolish wench!” de Beauchamp roared.
Elizabeth saw the opening that Catarine had risked herself to provide. As de Beauchamp yanked Catarine down to clean up the mess, Elizabeth put the powder in her own goblet, swirled it around, and then tapped de Beauchamp on the shoulder. “Take my goblet. I’ll have the servants fill yours for me.”
He gave her a wicked smile, snatched her goblet, and drank some of her wine. She waved a hand for the servant’s aid. Once his goblet was refilled, she raised it, hoping to get him to toast and drink the rest of the draught. But he grabbed her wrist, causing the red wine to slosh over the rim and down the front of her gown. “No more games,” he said, his gaze raking over her. “I will have you before your husband returns.”
The hand closed around her wrist may very well have been gripping her heart. It felt as if it had stopped beating. But she clenched the hand on her knee into a fist and met his disgusting gaze. “The king has forbidden you from touching me,” she hissed.
“I am one of the richest men in England, Elizabeth, and the king’s coffers are low. He needs me. He will get over his anger.”
The truth of his words made her tremble. “I won’t go willingly,” she said, feeling the press of her dagger against her thigh, where she had started wearing it for fear the guards would take it if they saw it.
“Look to the door,” he said, his voice cold.
She did so and inhaled a jagged breath. Catarine was there, with the guards on either side of her, each holding one of her arms. “With a wave of my hand they will have the permission they wish to ravage your friend. I hold them back. You hold her fate in your hands. What will it be?” He raised her wine goblet abruptly to his mouth, emptied it in one gulp, and set it down with a thud. He stood and held out a hand to her for everyone in the great hall to see. She understood then what he was doing. He was making it seem as if she were willingly leaving the great hall with him, that she was willingly betraying Robert.
Fury blazed in her so hot, she felt her insides shrivel. She would kill him. She thought she could, too; she was that mad and disgusted. She would stab him in the gut and then rid him of the part he wished to stick in her. Her stomach flipped at her own vile thoughts. Perhaps she would simply stab him in the gut, then. She rose, her spine feeling as if it would not hold her up, but it did, and she took his hand.
He pressed his mouth close to her ear. “Smile,” he said, stroking a hand down her cheek.
In the back of the great hall, Mar servants glared at her. Though the Earl of Mar had paid homage to Edward, the servants all likely knew he had done so only to save his head, his family, and his lands, including Kildrummy. But while the castle still technically belonged to the Earl of Mar, it was, in truth, in Edward’s control. Their hatred floated across the length of the room to choke her. She clenched her jaw and lifted her chin. She was now not only Robert’s hated outlander wife but she was betraying him. Yet, she had no choice. She forced a smile, her lips cracking with the effort, and then departed the dais with him. He walked her down the center of the great hall, all eyes upon them. It was the most humiliating experience of her life, but for Catarine, she would bear it. She prayed to God Robert would believe her when he heard of this.
All the way down the hall she thought of how cold and clammy de Beauchamp’s hand was. So unlike Robert’s strong, warm hand. She peered at her captor sideways, hoping for signs of drowsiness, but he appeared alert, for his unflinching gaze met hers. “I always knew you had a liking for me, Elizabeth,” he said, tugging her up the stairs of the Snow Tower. A great noise filled her head, which must’ve been her own fear, for de Beauchamp did not seem to notice a thing.
He pulled her farther up the stairs, one flight turning into two, then three, and four, and her mind planned the very best way to get her hands on her dagger to plunge it in his gut. Or perhaps his heart was better…
“We could have been married,” he said offhandedly. “At one time, I truly cared for you. Until he had you. Now you are little more than a Scot’s whore.”
“What does that make you, then?” she ground out, too furious to curb her tongue. She pulled back as they reached the last level, where her bedchamber was. No one would be rescuing her. Suddenly, the ground seemed to vibrate beneath her. By Christ, she was going mad! “You wish to lie with a Scot’s whore. Is it simply because you know in your heart that you are not the man Robert is, nor could you ever be.”
His released her wrist and grasped her neck. His thumb and index finger settled on either side, and he pressed hard. Black spots appeared before her, and she hissed, trying to slap his hand away, but he slapped hers away instead. “I could kill you,” he said, his voice dispassionate. “But I rather think that might irritate the king even more than I wish to.” He released her neck, grabbed her arm again, and twisted it back and up. She cried out. “However, if you get a tart tongue with me again, I will break your arm. They cannot always set it back correctly, you know. If I break it, it may just dangle there the rest of your life. Let us see if your proud husband wants you so much then. What is it to be? Will you curb your tongue?”
For a moment her mind screamed, No! Robert would love her regardless, but if they ever had to run, if there ever came a time when he needed her to help him fight, she would be much le
ss useful with only one good arm. “Yes,” she spat out, now shaking with rage.
“That’s a clever girl,” he said with a chuckle. He jerked her the rest of the way down the hall and into her chamber. He slammed the door with his boot, dragged her across the room, and slung her onto the bed. She scrambled backward while yanking up her skirt to grasp her dagger. She pulled it out of the holder, and as she did, de Beauchamp stepped toward her. God help her, had he just swayed?
“You think you are fast enough and strong enough to kill me?” His words were slurred. If she could hold him there for a few more breaths, perhaps…
“I believe so,” she replied, edging farther back on the bed. “I have been taught to defend myself.”
“Then let us see what you have learned.” He lunged at her, landing on top of her, and causing her head to jerk back and bang into the wood. Stars danced in her eyes, and the arm she’d been using to hold the dagger tingled as the dagger flew from her fingers. He shoved his knee between her thighs, and she turned her head, seeing the gleaming dagger just out of her reach. And all the helplessness that she had felt for so long poured from her in a cry of impotent rage.
Elizabeth’s scream filled the silence of the Snow Tower. Robert pounded up the last few stairs, taking them two at a time. He had been weary beyond belief, having pushed himself to ride ahead to Elizabeth and get to Kildrummy before the rest of the party, but he’d shed it the moment he’d heard in the great hall that his wife had accompanied de Beauchamp out of the room moments before Robert had arrived. Her scream now confirmed his worst fear: de Beauchamp was ravaging her.
Outlaw King Page 29
